


celestial beings getting wasted in a London pub; circa 1580

by starling



Category: Doctor Faustus - Christopher Marlowe, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:24:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starling/pseuds/starling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let me tell you about Crawly.  He says he wants to work with humans - he gets himself a job pissing about on earth, tempting and wiling and getting drunk and generally having a time of it, only filing reports every other century and spending half the time asleep.  I want to work with humans - oh, I get to make deals.  What that boils down to is a whole lifetime of being the genie-of-the-lamp for the Idiot Human Of The Week, and at the end of the day I’ve got one soul, one commendation and one massive grudge against lazy sods like Crawly.  Or Crowley, as he’s calling himself now, the git.</p>
            </blockquote>





	celestial beings getting wasted in a London pub; circa 1580

“Ah, Mephistopheles!” 

No idea why, but I reached back to him then, when he called my name.  His last words, actually, which I’m trying not to feel a twisted pride in.  He was soon lost to me.  Caput.  Finis.  Shoved Downstairs.  Gone to hell, in the most gruesomely literal interpretation of the phrase.  

Of course, I’d always known it would happen - honestly, it’s my  _job_  to make this sort of thing happen.  They’ll give me a commendation for this for sure, the buggers.  But it’s getting to me, because I really tried to screw this one up, for once.  I never lied to him - never even bent the truth - told him all about hell and how much it sucks; honestly, the deal wasn’t even my idea.  It was like the stupid, brilliant, bastard had  _wanted_  to go to hell.

So here I am, sitting in some crappy little pub in some stinking and freezing European city - both at the same time, probably London, then - trying to get absolutely wasted.  I’m supposed to have discorporated by now - I’m only really in the business of making deals, you see - but I thought:  _fuck them_.  I deserve a holiday, after fucking Faustus.  (That’s purely an expletive, you understand; I can’t mean it literally, unfortunately.  I did think about playing the role of Helen for a moment, but I figured that would be a bit  _too weird_ , even for me.)  I’m still pissed off by however many centuries it’s been of slaving away for years to get one bloody soul.  

Does it show that I’m bitter?  Because I am.  Let me tell you, I am absolutely fucking nobody in Hell.  I’m just about senior enough to kick imps about, and that’s all I’ve got going for me.  Sure, Lucifer shows up now and then for a guest spot - theatrical bastard that he is - when I’ve got someone wavering - thanks a _bundle_ , mate, really - but that’s about it.  Him showing up when I’m on a job is like a politician coming to shake hands with a binman - we act all friendly, but at the end of the day I think he’s a stuck-up tosser and he probably leaves my presence and disinfects himself.

Anyway, because my day’s already going so well, the next arsehole to cross the threshold is Crawly.  I recognise him by his eyes - all snake-y and weird - and by the angel hanging off his arm.  I try to summon some hatred for thingy-whatsit-angel-guy as well, but can’t quite manage it, not with that flash bastard  _right there._

Let me tell you about Crawly.  He says he wants to work with humans - he gets himself a job pissing about on earth, tempting and wiling and getting drunk and generally having a time of it, only filing reports every other century and spending half the time asleep.  I want to work with humans - oh, I get to make  _deals_.  What that boils down to is a whole lifetime of being the genie-of-the-lamp for the Idiot Human Of The Week, and at the end of the day I’ve got one soul, one commendation and one massive grudge against lazy sods like Crawly.  Or  _Crowley_ , as he’s calling himself now, the git.  

Just my luck - he recognises me.  ”Mephistopheles?” he asks, and I nod, resigning myself to what’s coming.  ”How’ve you been?” he asks, sliding in to sit in the bench opposite me in my little booth.

“Another soul in the bag,” I reply, trying to sound pleased with myself.  He looks convinced, but the angel - who’s sat down next to him; I mean:  _what_?! - suddenly goes all soft and serious.  His name starts with a Z, I think.  Anyway, the angel looks at me - all blue-eyed and sympathetic: not very much like the others, but still supremely irritating - and goes, “I’m sorry.”

Can you believe it?  Honestly, I’ve just consigned one of the most brilliant men of the age to a premature and one-way ticket to hell, and he’s apologising like his opinion is something that matters to me.  He must guess what I think of his ‘sorry’ because he slinks off to buy another round.  I heroically resist the urge to punch Crawly in his smug face, and soon there’s another beer in my hand.  Perfect, because if these two stick around then I’m going to need to be very drunk indeed.

I still end up burning down the pub just to get the angel to shut up about whatever happened between them in Alexandria - some old grudge against Crawly, I gather.  The angel keeps going on about books and Crawly keeps countering with philosophy, and all this reminds me too much of Faustus.  The angel does say one thing of import though - “Human knowledge is valuable, it has to be preserved - they need all the knowledge they can get,” - and Crawly smirks, and I take it to heart, sentimental bastard that I am.  

So, when the pub’s burning with the pair of them still inside - Crawly nearly has a heart attack, and he thinks we don’t know about him and his angel - I crack out the wings and head off back to Germany.  Faustus may be lost, but maybe some poor bugger can learn from his mistakes, suicidal tendencies, call them what you will.  Someone’s going to write it all down for me, I decide.  Maybe I could even make a name for myself; that would go down well Downstairs.  I’ll disguise the warning as instruction; I’ll probably even be rewarded.

**Author's Note:**

> Some stylistic homage to I, Lucifer, a book by Glen Duncan that I think the whole world ought to read.


End file.
